


B.F.E.

by beggar_always



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Meetings, Isolation, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggar_always/pseuds/beggar_always
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur spends some time in the middle-of-nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B.F.E.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole thing in just a few hours and then I sat on it, thinking I'd clean it up and flesh it out... But it's been a couple weeks and I've not really touched it. Just fixed a few typos. So I guess that means it's as done as it's gonna get.

Two days after he turns fifteen, Arthur steals his stepdad’s truck and drives it as far as the half-tank of gas will let him. Which isn’t far, actually, because the piece of rust is ancient and guzzles gas like Stan guzzles beer.

Arthur finds himself stranded on a rural back road in Southern Illinois, barely an hour from home. The tar on the road pops under his feet as he walks along, cursing the summer sun. A small patch of trees and headstones seems to burst out of nowhere from the flat farmland and Arthur finds himself drawn to it for more than just the shade.

The graves are old and mostly illegible, but Arthur doesn’t pay too much attention to them, choosing the spot under a tree and near a small cluster of tiny graves to sit and rest awhile.

It’s peaceful here, Arthur thinks. It seems a redundant thought, sitting in a cemetery, but Arthur’s not known very many peaceful spots in his life. A cool breeze makes it’s way through the trees and along the stones and Arthur lets himself relax for what feels like the first time in _months_.

He’s still stranded in the middle of B.F.E. with the very real possibility of an ass-kicking courtesy of Stan when he finally makes it back home...but Arthur can’t bring himself to care all that much. He’s reminded himself that peace exists. Sometimes it just takes an old country road and an empty tank of gas to find it.

\---

Afghanistan is a lot of nothing. Not everywhere and not everything, but there are very long stretches of absolutely nothing.

If he were allowed to, Arthur would write home to his sister just to let her know what it’s like to literally be Beyond Fucking Egypt. But his unit’s on strict no contact orders, so Arthur keeps the thought to himself. His sister, being the smartass that she is, would likely just write him back to give him a geography lesson and explain to him that it’s all a matter of perspective.

She’s the only family member he ever misses.

“Care if I sit?” a voice asks. Arthur looks up to find one of the Brits standing over him, holding a foil packet of food. Arthur shrugs in response, unsurprised to have his solitude interrupted as the wall he’s leaning against offers a modicum of shade.

“Cheers.” The man plops down next to him with his meal and seems surprisingly content to sit with Arthur in silence. Arthur likes him instantly. They’re moving out in an hour - who knows when they’ll have another chance at quiet.

After awhile, the marine next to him sighs and holds out half a candy bar. Arthur accepts it, mostly on reflex, and gives the man a questioning look. The stranger just shakes his head before he pushes himself to his feet.

“Back to work. Thanks for the company, mate.”

The man’s rejoined a cluster of Royal Marines across the way before Arthur thinks to take a bite of the chocolate in his hand. Afghanistan’s not always nothing.

\---

As soon as Eames had walked into that meeting, Arthur should have walked right out the other way. Sometimes two worlds just aren’t meant to collide, no matter how well two people might have worked together in a past life.

So really, Arthur sees it as his own fault that he’s stuck in an abandoned motel in upstate New York with a feverish Forger, dwindling medical supplies, and several feet of snow falling from the sky.

“Shoulda known he’d cross us,” Eames mutters from the bed. Arthur crosses to his side to peel away the blankets, checking on the bullet wound again. Too red to be healthy. “N’ver did like me.”

“No one likes you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says as he tucks the blankets back around him. “I’ve heard you brag about that fact.”

“You like me,” Eames argues, sounding almost petulant.

“I don’t count. You gave me candy,” Arthur explains. “I like anyone who gives me candy.”

Eames gives him a tired smile as his eyes slip shut again. Arthur returns to the window.

There’s still half a tank of gas in their stolen car, but Arthur doubts the tiny thing would make it more than a mile in the snow. They’d been lucky the motel had been right there that last time the car had slid off the road.

Arthur has never been one to loathe isolation, but he’s cursing it right now. That bullet could have very easily ended up in his chest if Eames hadn’t shoved him out of the way. It’d all been too reminiscent of that last firefight in the desert - Eames hovering over him, yelling things that hadn’t even made sense.

“Evens stevens,” Eames had told Arthur as he’d shoved the injured man into the car to get them the hell out of the city.

The cell reception is spotty at best but Arthur finds one of the rooms two doors down gets him a single bar. He’s got plenty of favors to call in but only a few he’s actually willing to take. At this point, though, he’ll do anything to get them back to civilization.

\---

He’s surprised of everyone it’s Eames who finds him. Not that he’s hiding, exactly, but Arthur’s taken care to not be easily reached.

Eames is leaning against the porch railing when Arthur gets back from a hike in the woods. Neither man says a word as Arthur climbs the steps and heads inside. Eames follows him into the kitchen and hops himself up on the counter as Arthur starts a pot of coffee.

“How’s the shoulder?” Eames finally asks.

Arthur pointedly reaches into the cupboard next to Eames’s head for the mugs. Eames sighs and slips down from the counter. It takes a lot of willpower for Arthur not to tense up as Eames crowds in behind him. The Forger takes the mugs from his hands, setting them on the countertop before he gently turns Arthur to face him.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Eames leans in to kiss him. It’s surprisingly soft, not at all like the one time before when Eames had been halfway to drunk and shoved his tongue down Arthur’s throat.

This feels...oddly familiar. Eames’s hands are gentle on his hips, holding him close but not restraining him. When their lips part, Eames presses his forehead to Arthur’s and just breathes for a moment.

“You were very hard to find, Arthur,” he murmurs. “Never figured you for a cabin-in-the-woods type.”

“I like being in the middle of nowhere,” Arthur says. Eames laughs, pulling back just slightly.

“I seem to remember a string of very colorful words coming out of your mouth regarding a certain abandoned motel in, what was it? Bumfuck, Egypt?”

“I don’t like being _stranded_ ,” Arthur argues as he starts pushing Eames back toward the living room and the very lovely couch that will undoubtedly make a very lovely surface on which to make out. “And you were sick,” he adds more quietly.

Eames halts their progression long enough to kiss Arthur again. “So...voluntary isolation - all for it?” Eames asks once they start moving again.

Arthur grins and pushes Eames down onto the couch. “Definitely. No interruptions. No one else to disturb...”

Eames’s grin is slow but big, lighting up his whole face.

\---

It’s cold and wet and smells of grass. Arthur blinks his eyes open and has no fucking clue where the hell he is.

Well, he knows he’s in the middle of a field. A valley, actually, judging by the hills he sees when he manages to get to his feet. His body aches, but nothing seems to broken or bleeding, so Arthur goes back to examining his surroundings. There’s a road in the distance, winding away over one of the hills. Arthur starts to walk toward it as he manages to pull his phone out of his pocket. He barely has a signal at all and the phone absolutely refuses to connect to anything even vaguely internet related.

Without access to Google Maps, Arthur is forced to call the one person he trusts to hack the GPS in his phone from afar.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but can you say that again?” Eames says across the static-y connection. He sounds far too amused for Arthur to really believe he hadn’t heard him.

“I’m in the middle of fucking B.F.E. and I’m not even sure what fucking country I’m in because the last thing I knew it was fucking Tuesday and I was in Las Vegas and now my phone says it’s somehow fucking Friday and I’m standing in the middle of a very grassy fucking knoll.”

“You really have no clue where you are or how you got there?” Eames asks, sounding slightly concerned now. “Can you see any landmarks?”

“All I see are sheep! Lots of fucking sheep!” Arthur yells, frustrated.

“Oh. Well, you’re obviously in Wales,” Eames says.

Arthur closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep, calming breath. “ _Eames_...” he growls.

“I’m tracing you, Darling,” Eames says reassuringly. “Just sit still for a spell and I’ll find you.”

“I think my phone’s about to die,” Arthur moans when he hears the tell-tale beep.

“Just sit tight. I’ll get someone out to you as soon as this bloody computer cooperates.”

Arthur’s phone dies, rather appropriately, as Eames is in the middle of cursing technology. The road Arthur finally reaches looks abandoned and rarely used - gone more to dirt than pavement. Little chance of someone just passing by. His head’s starting to hurt, so Arthur gives in and plops down against a rotting fence post. Eames will track him down, he has no doubt, he’s just no going to hold his breath on it happening any time soon.

The sun’s just starting to set when a car crests the hill. Arthur gets to his feet as the car comes to a stop in front of him. It’s obvious Eames is trying very hard not to laugh as he gets out from behind the wheel.

“You know, love, I didn’t _actually_ think I’d find you in Wales,” he says as he walks up to the Point Man. Arthur glares at him. “That looks painful...” Eames’s hand brushes against a sore spot on Arthur’s head, causing Arthur to flinch away. Eames sighs and leans in to press a gentle kiss to Arthur’s frown. “Come on, then,” he says as he steers Arthur toward the car. “I made a few calls on my way out here. Seems you’ve had quite the week...”

\---

Cobb likes to hide in cities. He counts on the anonymity of large populations to keep him safe. Arthur can see the logic in it, and it’s certainly nice to be able to find a decent coffee shop whenever he wants one, but there’s a part of him that longs for old cemeteries and run-down motels in the middle of nowhere. The other day he’d passed a toy store with stuffed sheep in the window and he’d even found himself thinking wistfully of that Welsh field and that little cottage Eames had claimed belonged to a friend of a friend and would be the best place for Arthur to recuperate from what had apparently been a bachelor party gone awry.

Arthur enjoys the bustle of city life, but it’s been months on the run with Cobb now and he’s starting to crave some isolation.

After this job, he’s taking a break from Cobb. He’ll head back to the States, find some old country road to get lost on. He just needs to recharge.

\---

Nearly eight months after the Fischer Job, Arthur realizes that ‘lying low’ has turned into de facto retirement.

He walks through the farmhouse, sidestepping the detritus of Eames’s latest remodeling project in the dining room, to find the man himself puttering around the kitchen, midway through dinner preparations.

“Did we use the last of the garlic last night?” Eames asks without turning around.

“The fresh garlic, yes. There should still be some powder and salt in the cabinet.”

Arthur leans against the doorframe to watch Eames chop and mix away. He loves the way the Forger cooks - it’s all guesswork and liberal seasoning.

“Have you had any job offers lately?” Arthur asks after a few minutes of observation.

Eames glances over his shoulder at him, the visible eyebrow quirked just slightly. “Isn’t the point of setting up house in the middle of B.F.E. that one becomes unreachable?” he asks as he turns his attention back to his ingredients.

“Have we retired?” Arthur flat out asks.

Eames throws back his head and laughs. “Men like us don’t retire, Darling,” he says. He turns to face Arthur, a smile on his face as he wipes his hand on the hideous floral apron he insists on wearing. “We merely choose to do something different.”

“What exactly are we doing?” Arthur can’t help but ask.

Eames steps up to Arthur and wraps his arms around his waist. “ _I_ am trying to make dinner and _you_ are distracting me,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips.

“Eames...”

Eames sighs and kisses Arthur on the temple. He pulls back enough to look Arthur in the eye and says, “We’re making somewhere out of nowhere, love.”

It’s cheesy, but it’s perfectly Eames and Arthur has no choice but to smile broadly at him.

“Sounds good to me,” he agrees.

/end


End file.
